"Mycroft Holmes you will give me my damned phone!" Lestrade yelled in frustration. He'd been about to call John when once again the British government hd appeared out of nowhere and snatched the phone from his palm.

"I will not have that man upsetting my brother again!" Mycroft growled.

"For fuck's sake Mycroft, will you look at him?" Lestrade demanded pointing a finger at the man on the bed, "He can't get any worse! He's given up already!"

It was true, after all the yelling and screaming of yesterday Sherlock had become quiet and still. Lestrade found it even worse than the screaming. He just laid there with his eyes half open, staring at whatever happened to be in front of him.

"He's practically catatonic!" Lestrade continued, "He wont eat, he wont drink, hell, he'd be dead right now if it wasn't for the IV drips!"

That made Mycroft flinch.

After he'd recovered from the nightmare last night Lestrade had once again lowered him back down onto his pillows and redone the restraints. Though it seemed they were not needed anymore since Sherlock had done little more than blink the last eight hours.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called sitting down on the side of the bed, "Lockie, I need you to show you can hear me."

Sherlock didn't move, he just kept staring at the wall.

"Come on Sherlock," Lestrade tried, "You can't just give up now."

Still nothing.

Lestrade checked the man's vitals once again, the nurse had quit after Sherlock's last rage. They were getting slower and slower.

"Mycroft he's fading." Lestrade muttered, "His heart rate is slower, his breathing is shallower...his body is just too weak and he's not fighting anymore."

"This is all-"

"Blaming John wont get us anywhere, now let me call him!" Lestrade growled, "We've been trying to talk to Sherlock all morning and it's gotten us nowhere!"

Mycroft bit his lip, a very strange look on the face of somebody usually so calm.

"Fine."

-oOo-

John had been in this position many times in the past three years. Sitting on his bed, still dressed in his night clothes with his gun sitting in his palm. He'd spent the last day worrying constantly about Sherlock. Withdrawals could be fatal, especially if the body was weak, which Sherlock's surely was. Why wouldn't anybody tell him anything!

Lestrade had barely given him any information and for all he knew Sherlock really could be dead right now.

'It'd be all your fault too. You drove him away.'

'All he wanted to do was keep you safe. This is your fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT!'

He was barely aware that he'd slicked the safety off his gun. It was as if his mind had come back online when he heard the click, suddenly realizing he had the barrel pointing right at his head. Quickly he threw the gun across the room, ignoring how dangerous the acting was.

He had to wait until he knew Sherlock was okay, then...then he could go through with it. Once he knew Sherlock was safe and on the road to recovery it would be alright for him to leave. It wasn't as if the detective would want him around after that.

Suddenly he realized his breathing wasn't the only sound in the flat.

His phone was ringing.

He practically fell on it and answered.

"John it's Sherlock-"

Oh God...

"He's not doing so well, you need to come see him."

"I can see him?" John breathed feeling both dread and joy.

"It's like he's just given up," Lestrade admitted, "He wont eat or drink...he wont even talk, half the time I don't think he can hear us."

"I'll be right there." John replied already pulling on his jumper and jeans, these last three weeks had been worse than the three years for him.

"Mycroft's place, I'll meet you at the door."

-oOo-

John practically flew up the stairs to Mycroft's insanely huge house, the stairs barely touched his shoes soles. He burst through the front doors to hard he actually knocked Lestrade to the ground. Normally he'd help him up but not today, today he needed to see Sherlock.

"Where is he? Which room?" He asked quickly glancing about.

"John, calm down. You wont help anybody rushing around like a chicken with your head cut off." Lestrade grumbled getting to his feet.

"He probably wont help anybody regardless." Mycroft's cool voice cut in.

"Where is he?" John asked, "It's my fault he's-"

"Yes it is."

"But I need to see him!"

Mycroft waved him up and Lestrade followed.

"Don't listen to him, John. He's just angry." Lestrade whispered.

"He has every right to blame me." John replied, "He's only being protective."

"Alright, there is food and water on the tray by the bed, see if you can convince him to eat something. That's if he responds at all."

Lestrade gave him a small smile and headed off down the hall, John was thankful for the privacy. Taking a deep breath he twisted the handle and entered the room keeping his eyes on the ground until he could look up.

Sherlock was laying in the middle of a bed with white sheets in flannels. He was pale and drawn, his bones were sticking out far too much, his head was turned to the side staring at the wall, he didn't react to John entreating the room. It was such a rapid difference from the bright, energetic detective John knew three years ago.

'You did this to him'

He shook his head to dispatch the self loathing thoughts, his feelings weren't important now. Lestrade was right, next to Sherlock's bed was a table containing a pitcher of water, glasses and two bowls of soup. He picked up the water and quickly filled one of the glasses before sitting down on the bed beside Sherlock.

Gently he turned Sherlock's face toward him.

"Sherlock?" He whispered brokenly, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The younger mans eyes were glazed and dull, no wit or light left in them and it made John want to cry at the sight. Then, as if somebody had hit a switch within the geniuses brain the eyes focused and widened slowly.

"John?" Sherlock breathed.

The doctor couldn't help but smile a little.

"Yeah." He replied softly, "I'm here."

Sherlock looked as if he were about to sit up but he winced and slide back into the pillows, confused John raised the sheets and felt his heart break a little to see the restraints. Without asking he carefully undid the leather from Sherlock's wrist and peeled it back off the skin as gently as he could. Sherlock had obviously struggled a great deal, the skin was red, bloody and completely shredded in places, no wonder he was in pain.

Gently he continued the process with the other wrist and ankle bonds, finding much the same results. Sherlock was silent save a few whimpers as the leather tugged at the sensitive skin.

John then quickly located the First Aid kit and fished out some white bandages and soothing cream. He applied the cream as soothingly as possible and then bandaged the mans wrists and ankles.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He whispered, "I'm sorry for what I said and I'm so sorry they had to do this to you."

Slowly, Sherlock sat up against his pillows, he was too thin and gaunt it made John feel like he was looking at a ghost.

"Why...are you here?" He asked finally, not meeting John's eyes.

"I'm sorry, I know you probably don't want me here." He replied, "I wanted to make sure you were okay and I've been so worried-"

"Worried?" Sherlock questioned, "I thought...I thought you wanted me to..."

"No!" John jumped up from the bed so fast it made Sherlock jump, "I've spent three years wishing you would come back! It's all I've wanted for so long."

"But you said..."

Sherlock finally looked up and while there were no tears John could see the grey orbs shining. He couldn't take it, the guilt was suffocating him!

-oOo-

He'd retreated into his mind for some time it seemed. He didn't feel like fighting anymore, he couldn't make his body fight for life. Then John's face had appeared and he was here, talking and mending his wounds. Then saying he was sorry.

When he'd finally looked up at the man he'd crumbled, suddenly he was back on the bed with his arms wrapped lightly around Sherlock's neck and his face buried in his neck.

"I didn't mean it. I never meant it. God I'm so sorry! I'm so so sorry." He sobbed.

Sherlock was completely taken back, he couldn't even return the gesture. Lestrade had been right? John really had been looking for him all this time? He focused on John's voice again as he was still talking even though Sherlock had stopped listening.

"This is all my fault. All my fault, I'm so sorry."

"You really have been worried." Sherlock deduced, not that it was difficult, John pulled back so that they were facing each other.

"Yes, I've been worried sick."

"So you...do want me to come home then?" Sherlock asked, he felt nerves pile up inside his chest.

"Of course, I mean, that's if you want to." John smiled weakly, "I'll understand if you want me to leave after all I've done, you can keep Baker street of course."

"I want you to stay." Sherlock replied before John had even finished speaking. John smiled but his eyes were still sad.

"You need to eat." He said finally picking up the bowl of watery broth from the tray and holding it up for Sherlock to drink, he turned away.

"Sherlock, can you even remember the last time you ate well?" John sighed, "Now please."

John tipped the lukewarm soup gently into his mouth and before he could think he'd finished the entire bowl and was still ravenous. John didn't even ask, simply grabbed the other bowl and held it up to the detectives lips. This one was thicker, something creamy, pumpkin was the most likely. After that he managed a full glass of water before sinking back down into the pillows and relaxing, he hadn't felt this full in years.

He sighed contently as John placed his palm over his forehead.

"You're still warm but I don't think it's anything to worry about." He hummed, "The withdrawal will be over soon, you'll probably sleep for most of it."

Sherlock forced his eyes open again.

"You're not going to tie me down again are you?" He croaked, his wrists were still sore despite the bandages.

"No." John promised taking the leather and tossing them across the room to prove a point.

"...And you'll, stay?" Sherlock asked shyly, "When I'm asleep, so you'll still be here when I wake up?"

He hated how childish it sounded but he couldn't think of a better way to put things, his brain was still muddled.

"If that's what you want." John replied pushing the other mans dark curls back just as he had in the dream he'd had back in the alley.

Sherlock slept.